sY.cJ r^^"?'-'. 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap CopyrigiitNo. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Pictures of Travel 

And Other Poems 




From a photograph by J. 'Thomson, 
'JO a.. Gros-venor Street, London, W. 




Pictures of Travel 

And Other Poems 



By 

Mackenzie Bell 

eAuthor of 

" Spring's Immortality and other Poems '* 
*' Charles Whitehead : A Biographical and Critical Monograph " 
** Christina Rossetti : A Biographical and Critical Study *' 



With Six Illustrations 



Boston 
Little, Brown, & Co. 

1898 



lt^^62 






Copyright, 1898, 
By Little, Brown, & Company 



Al/ rights reserved 




DcopitJi !rtt.i»£.i\jty< 



University Press 
John Wilson & Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 









TO 
WILLIAM MACDONALD SINCLAIR 

ARCHDEACON OF LONDON 

IN MEMORY OF MANY HAPPY HOURS 
SPENT AT THE CHAPTER HOUSE 

ST. Paul's cathedral 



Prefatory Note 

/ AM obliged to the editors of^^The Pall Mall Magazine,'' 
" The Churchman,'' London, ^^Black andTVhite," London, 
" The Lady's Realm," London, " The Literary World," 
London, and other periodicals, for permission to include in 
this volume poems which originally appeared in their pages, 
and to Messrs. Hutchinson & Co. for their courtesy in 
allowing me to include the two sonnets, '■^To a Lady 
Playing the Harp in her Chamber," which were first pub- 
lished in the third series of " The Savage Club Papers." 

In stanza V. of " The Battle's Pause" one of the 
poems in this volume, an attempt is made to paint a picture 
of what in other times was very familiar in the estuary 
of the Mersey — the sailing out of many merchantmen 
which had long been wind-bound. This must indeed have 
been a singularly beautiful sight as viewed from such a 
coign of vantage, for example, as Seacombe beach opposite 



PREFATORY NOTE 

to Liverpool. What marine spectacle in these days of 
steam can equal in picturesqueness the sailing-ships of the 
early part of the century^ imposing in their proportions^ 
and moving majestically through the water under favour- 
ing conditions ? With reference to other lines in the same 
stanza it may be mentioned that St. Nicholas^ the ancient 
parish church of Liverpool^ is near the river^ and is a 
noticeable object from it^ and that in the early part of 
l8l^ there was an extraordinarily severe frost in the 
neighbourhood of Liverpool with ice-floes on the Mersey. 

"^ Plea for Faith '* was written.^ and its title chosen^ 
before I read., both in manuscript and in proof my friend 
Dr. George S. Keith's treatise., "^ Plea for a Simpler 
Faith.'' " A Plea for a Simpler Faith " was not sug- 
gested by my poem. 

MACKENZIE BELL, 

London, September i8g8. 



Contents 



PICTURES OF TRAVEL — SECOND SERIES i 

PAGE 

After Sunset off Pauillac ...... 3 

Evening in the Forest of Meudon .... 5 

Wild Roses and Snow ...... 7 

At Sea — Off the Mouth of the Garonne — Sunset 9 

Near St. Sauveur . . . . . . .11 

On the Lake of Geneva . . . . . • ^3 

The Battle's Pause . . . . . • 17 

To A Worker among the Poor . . ... 47 

A Plea for Faith ...... 55 

1 For the first series of " Pictures of Travel," see the author's previous 
volume, "Spring's Immortality and Other Poems" (third edition, 1896). 



CONTENTS 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

To A Summer Evening in the Woods 

The Boy Chatterton to Himself 

The Boy Coleridge to Himself 

The Philosophy of our Feelings 

The Philosophy of Frequent Failure 

Wind Fancies .... 

To Frederick Tennyson . 

To a Lady playing the Harp in her Chamber 



PAGE 

68 
70 

72 

73 
75 
76 

78 



RELIGIOUS POEMS 

To Christina Rossetti . . . . 

A Sunrise in Early Summer 
Her Boy Just Dead . . . . 

Miracles ....... 



83 
84 

87 
90 



List of Illustrations 

"... where a valley closes 
'Mid mountain heights up-piled" . . To face page 7 

"Nature is great, and Man is impotent" " 11 

<« . . . waters of the waveless lake" " 13 ^' 

"... that steep village street which lay, 
Crag-perched, 'mid tree-boles gnarled and grey 
With age " " ^9 

"... the reach 
The farm-folk call the Little Broad" . . " 3^ 



"... each object . . . made so clear 
In this rare light " . 



66 



PICTURES OF TRAVEL 

SECOND SERIES 



After Sunset off Pauillac 

{Gironde^ 

The day is gone, but yonder fading streaks 

Of light still fleck the bosom of the sky. 
Swart Night comes swiftly. Hark, that sound 
bespeaks 

My nearness to the ocean, 't is the cry 
Of some belated sea-bird, and I hear 

The ripples at my feet. A low sweet song 
Monotonous, yet musical and clear, 

Is breeze-borne from a vessel's deck along. 
The crew raise anchor quickly, and away 

She glides into the gloom, while growing low 



4 After Sunset off Pauillac 

And ever lower sounds the roundelay. 

What now may be her fortune none can know. 
Like her, o'er Life's strange, trackless sea we 

sail, 
Nor know if calm or tempest will prevail. 



Evening in the Forest of Meudon 

(^Seine et 01 se) 

Returning sometimes from the fields of sleep, 
I seem to see that twilight once again, 

That twilight as mysterious, rich, and deep. 
As yonder blackbird's strain. 



I see the sombre loveliness around; 

I feel the sense of awe, the enthralling peace. 
Of Nature's woodland silence, for no sound 

Makes here that silence cease. 



6 Evening in the Forest of Meudon 

Anon I see the waters of the lake 

Gleam in the last hues of the sunset glow, 

While here and there the lazy cattle slake 
Their thirst, and homeward go. 

But hear, O hear that sudden burst of song, 
At last it is the full-voiced nightingales! 

While mellow cuckoos sing, and so prolong 
Music as daylight fails. 

********* 

Long hours have passed, and man and beast and 
bird 
Rest; yet my heart is filled with pure delight, 
And lo, a single nightingale is heard 



Amid the moonless night. 




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13 



Wild Roses and Snow 

{^Basses Pyrenees) 

How sweet the sight of roses 
In English lanes of June, 

When every flower uncloses 
To meet the kiss of noon. 



How strange the sight of roses — 
Roses both sweet and wild — 

Seen where a valley closes 

'Mid mountain heights up-piled. 



Wild Roses and Snow 

Upon whose sides remaining 
Is strewn the purest snow, 

By its chill power restraining 
The tide of Spring's soft glow. 

Yet God who gave the pureness 
To yon fair mountain snow, 

Gives also the secureness 
Whereby these roses blow. 



At Sea — Off the Mouth of the 
. Garonne — Sunset 

A TWILIT halo gilds the troubled sky. 
And gilds the heaving waters far and nigh ; 
About me here is some strange loveliness 
Which, as the shadows deepen, grows not less. 



Hark! Now, not once or twice, but o'er and o'er, 
In solemn grandeur comes the deep-voiced roar 
Of strong Atlantic surges ; where I stand 
I look, but see no welcome speck of land. 



lo Off the Mouth of the Garonne 

How beautiful is yonder distant sail 
Illumined yet; but soon my eyes must fail 
To trace its further course, for it will be 
Lost in the glory of the sunset sea. 



And as I gaze, and gaze, dim thoughts arise — 
Thoughts of Man's destiny; these callous skies 
Seem types of earthly cruelty, and now 
The sea, like man, is sad — I know not how. 



The air is still ; no winged wanderer cleaves 
The silence in his flight, as Night receives 
Ere long her stately queen the crescent moon. 
Whose glimmering beams show all the billows 
soon. 




■'Nature is great, and Man is impotent." — p. II, 



Near St. Sauveur 

(^Hautes Pyrenees) 

Lo, what a glorious prospect is revealed — 
Mountains and snow, and pine-trees beauty-clad ! 
Upon the sloping sides of monarch heights 
Reposes gracefully a misty veil. 
In wreaths almost transparent ; but ev'n now 
Its mass divides, and clear against the sky 
Rises each giant summit, calm and grand. 
Proud that its lone, its vast, its God-wrought 

strength 
Defies so long decay. I needs must feel 
Nature is great, and Man is impotent. 



12 Near St. Sauveur 

Yet still how much his art hath made increase 
To this rare store of beauty. Each small patch 
Perceived upon the mountain side, reclaimed 
From barren wilderness, what power it hath 
To cheer the eye. To me it often seems 
As though no prospect reached perfection till 
It showed some kindly trace of human toil. 




<< 









O 



On the Lake of Geneva 

A SILVERN haze is over all. At hand 

Are gently swaying poplars, rippling larches, 

And firmly rooted firs, while further off 

Gleam azure waters of the waveless lake. 

Beyond again are mountains; not, as oft, 

Gaunt snow-capped monarch peaks, but bright 

with verdure. 
The rocks throw shadows quaint upon the grass ; 
White chalets peep among the clustering vines ; 
Gay boats glide smoothly on with placid sails 
Widely outspread. 



THE BATTLE'S PAUSE 



The Battle's Pause 

(An Imaginary Episode at Waterloo) 



At daybreak on a lonely sea 

Stxange is the silence; heavily 

The louring clouds loom dim and dun, 

Till comes at length the far-off sun ; 

Strange is the silence of the day 

Where waves are hushed in some fair bay; 

Strange is the silence of the night 

Where throned in space the stars give light ; 

Strange is the silence that ofttimes 

Broods o'er the city's shame and crimes; 

2 



1 8 The Battle's Pause 

Strange is the silence of the room 

Where lingering sickness hangs in gloom; 

Strange is the silence after death 

Where anguished sound departs with breath ; 

But stranger is the silence when 

The moans are stilled of wounded men, 

Where stilled an instant are the cries 

That from wild scenes of strife arise 

As noise of rapid volleys cease, — 

As God grants here and there release, — 

As suddenly the senses yield 

To silence on the battle-field. 

II 

In these fleet moments interposed 
Ere yet once more the foemen closed, 



The Battle's Pause 19 

In inner vision every man 

Lived o'er again his whole life's span. 

Only of plunder many thought, 

But here and there was one who caught 

Swift glimpses, borne on spirit-wings. 

Of God, of Heaven, of holy things — 

Who felt his courage no less high 

Because he was prepared to die, 

III 

One dreams of his betrothed in France, 
A dark-eyed girl with laughing glance. 
And wonders if he soon shall meet 
Her tender looks, her smile so sweet. 
"Ah, ma Lucille," with tears he cries, 
" Fain would I see the glad surprise 



20 The Battle's Pause 

Break the calm gaze of your dear eyes, 
As with high hope I come once more, 
Unwounded from the field of war. 
Fain would I see your rippling curls, 
More precious than those lustrous pearls. 
My gift to you — that sometimes deck 
The stately beauty of your neck — 
That on your bosom rise and fall, 
White rivals of its whiteness, all 
Eclipsed in utter loveliness. 



Fain would I see again that dress ; 
Its dainty hue of mellow brown 
Sets off the clustering curls that crown 
Your shapely head. Fain would I see 
The happy village revelry 



The Battle's Pause 21 

That joyous day which makes you mine — 
When underneath the ancient vine 
Around Saint Etienne's porch we pass 
Just coming from the wedding Mass, 
And leaving near to the altar stair 
The aire with his silvery hair, 
Low kneeling now in holy prayer, 
To crave a blessing on us there. 
His guileless, gladsome, saintly soul 
As spotless as his pure white stole." 

IV 

Another soldier sees a room 

O'ershadowed by a partial gloom, 
As heavy curtains shade the light 
From a wan sufferer's weakened sight. 
And on a couch is seen a boy, 



22 The Battle's Pause 

Whose wasted face, all flushed with joy, 
Looks on a portrait, newly there. 
Of a tall youth with raven hair. 
Clad in a garb of martial hue. 
And then in accents heartfelt, true. 
He speaks the words : " Would that I too 
With my dear brother still could be 
Where Valour leads to Victory." 

V . 

A Scotsman here among " The Greys" 
Chafes inly now at war's delays, — 
Would but the bugle sound the charge ! 
Would that he were once more at large 
Among the flying cuirassiers ! 
He knows no pity, knows no fears, — 



The Battle's Pause 23 

For him each instant passes slow 

Passed not in fight against the foe, — 

'T is hard to stand, nor give one blow — 

It suits his fiery humour ill 

To be a living target still, 

Nor use his good sword at his will. 



Near him "The Inniskillings " share 



A post of danger — everywhere 

Brave soldiers they, — who greatly dare. 

VI 

Before an English soldier lie 
Down-trodden fields of wheat and rye, 
But his tired vision does not meet 
These blood-stained fields of rye and wheat. 



24 The Battle's Pause 

He sees not how his comrades here 
Reveal no sign of craven fear; 
While they with bandaged hand or face, 
Still struggle on, nor quit their place. 
He sees not, as in many rifts 
The smoke of battle, rising, lifts. 
How everywhere all undismayed 
Still firm they stand as on parade, 
Although their thinning ranks disclose 
How hard with them the conflict goes. 
He sees the Mersey; fresh and cool 
The east wind blows from Liverpool 
To Seacombe beach, where, loitering, 
He stood one early morn of spring 
A month or two before. The day 
At first had seemed but chill and grey. 



The Battle's Pause 25 

Till brilliant sunshine suddenly 
Had flooded all the estuary. 
For weeks the west wind had prevailed — 
No ship, if outward bound, had sailed ; 
But now the fickle wind had veered. 
And now the sailors' hearts were cheered. 
While a whole fleet — a gallant show 
Of eager ships — was free to go. 
Full many a vessel, towards the bar 
Across the waters near and far. 
Moves buoyantly. With what delight 
He looks upon the goodly sight 
Of canvas spread to catch the breeze 
That dances o'er the rippling seas! 
How shapely are the skiffs which pass 
Between him and St. Nicholas ! 



26 The Battle's Pause 

How graceful is the distant town, 
Which gaily o'er the waves looks down ! 
Changed is the scene since 'mid the snow 
He saw it scarce a year ago. 
Then many a white and large ice-floe 
Reared its strange shape on every side, 
While tossing idly on the tide. 

VH 

Another soldier sees his home 
Where whirls the wild Biscayan foam ; 
Where surges beat with sullen roar 
Upon a dreary pine-clad shore. 
There his good mother yet must wait 
For many a month disconsolate, 
Waiting, still waiting for her child, 



The Battle's Pause 27 

With heavy heart unreconciled 
To his long absence — her distress 
At times most pitiful to guess. 
He sees her in her peasant's dress 
At household duties, at her door 
At eve and morning, evermore 
Thinking with heavy heart of him ; 
With unshed tears her eyes grow dim. 
Looking, aye looking constantly, 
Across the same sad, dreary sea. 
Again he hears the gleeful noise 
And chatter of the village boys. 

He even hears the sound once more 
Of sabots on a cottage floor. 

Again it seems that mournful day 
When he, alas, was called away; 



28 The Battle's Pause 

Again he sees the fishing-boat 

That comes to bear him to the town ; 
Again his home grows more remote 

As o'er the sea the sun goes down. 
Still he beholds his mother's face, 
And still he feels her warm embrace, 
He knows her anguished doubts, her fears, 
And would-be smiles, he feels her tears. 
He hears the heaving waters nigh — 
He sees above, an angry sky, 
Dark, yet with streaks of mingled grey, 
Fading while swiftly dies the day. 
He passes to the gathering gloom 
As though to some impending doom; 
Drear seems the earth, the sky, the main — 
He feels that Nature knows his pain. 




ON 






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The Battle's Pause 29 

VIII 

A youthful soldier looked around 

Upon the ghastly battle ground. 

He was a conscript, ne'er before 

Had he beheld the face of War, 

He saw not all its deeps of pain, 

For former scenes arose again. 

Once more he was a child at play, 

In that steep village street which lay, 

Crag-perched, 'mid tree-boles gnarled and grey 

With age. It was the close of day. 

Was that the church he knew of old. 

That the rude cross where he was told 

The story of the ancient time 

So full of mystery, lust, and crime ? 

Ah, how he loved yon olive wood, 



JO The Battle's Pause 

To him how sweet its solitude, 
How oft on many a summer night 
He watched from there the fading light, 
Till grew more bright and yet more bright 
The distant lamps of great Marseilles, 
And when at length the daylight fails. 
Fair seem the stars, fair seems the sea. 
Ah, how at once his memory 
Brings back for him these moonlit hours 
'Mid fragrance of the orange flowers. 
Fresh is the air, and soft and still. 
Save when the mistral brings its chill. 
Once more he feels the morning breeze 
Which gently curls the azure seas 
Around his father's fishing-boat. 
That like a live thing seem_s to float. 



The Battle's Pause 31 

Lovely it looks with dark brown sail, 
Outspread to catch each gentle gale. 
And when the noontide comes at length 
The crew refresh their waning strength 
By frugal meal, or merry jest, 
By games, or cheerful talk, or rest. 
One man had fought where waned the star 
Of France in fight off Trafalgar; 
Another speaks of Austerlitz, 
And shows the combat as he sits. 
With eager words, with eyes aflame, 
He tells the tale, **The Emperor came 
To our right flank when sore distressed : 
We needed succour, needed rest, 
Yet better was his presence then 
Than of a thousand untired men." 



32 The Battle's Pause 

So, early stirred the martial fire 
In the boy's breast — the proud desire 
To win the soldier's honoured name, 
To win the soldier's meed of fame. 



To him an order comes ere long 
To join the army; 'mid a throng 
Of youths he gains a barrack square, 
Strange seems the ceaseless bustle there. 
Here well-groomed horses drink their fill; 
Here is an active squad at drill; 
Here words of gaiety he hears; 
And here a mother stands in tears ; 
Here stands a veteran hale, erect. 
In garb that points to no neglect. 
Though he has marched full many a mile, 



The Battlers Pause 33 

In blazing sunshine all the while, 

A faultless soldier he has been, 

No chance of war can change his mien. 

Here stands a youth with shambling gait, 

In soldier's dress, yet unelate. 

With stupid look, and vacant face. 

As though his garb were some disgrace ; 

Here, agile gunners clean a gun ; 

And here, his day's work nearly done, 

A driver of the army train 

Brings in his store of food and grain. 

The conscript thinks with what glad heart 

In scenes like these he took a part. 

With joy his boy's heart overflows. 

He longs to smite his country's foes, 

Of what he leaves he scarce takes heed, 

3 



34 The Battle's Pause 

Civilian clothes he doffs with speed, 

To him his uniform brings life, 

He thinks of glory in the strife. 

He thinks, as now the sun goes down. 

Of lasting honour and renown; 

To him War is not sad, but strange — 

It gives him motion, stir, and change. 

******** 

Through all the long, the happy marches 

Across Provence, now bright with spring, 
He sees the gay triumphal arches. 

He hears once more the joy-bells ring. 
And then one day, through beat of drums. 
He hears the cry, "The Emperor comes," 
"The Emperor comes " — on every side 
They pass the word with looks of pride. 



The Battle's Pause 3S 

Each soldier feels his courage rise, 
Fresh pleasure sparkles in his eyes, 
And while he stands the more upright, 
Sees his accoutrements are bright. 
And hopes his bayonet, sword, or lance 
Will seem to that all-piercing glance 
As sword or bayonet ought to look. 
For who could bear the sharp rebuke 
Or face his comrades' words or jeers, 
Or worse, his comrades' covert sneers. 
At one the Emperor deigned to chide? 

An hour has gone; the corps espied 
The staff approaching, near a wood 
It stood to arms. Kind Nature's mood 
Was peaceful: there the stock-dove coo'd; 



36 The Battle's Pause 

The dreamer sees one purple flower, 

Which decked the spot that sunny hour. 

" The Emperor is an altered man 

Since Leipsic," says a veteran. 

And yet the great Napoleon seems 

The ideal of a soldier's dreams, 

As now he passes on his course. 

Erect upon his snow-white horse 

Amid his marshals. Soult and Ney, 

Heroes of many a well-fought day. 

Ride near him now, in gayest trim. 

They jest, and sometimes speak with him ■ 

Yet never seem to lose the sense 

Of that strange man's strange influence — 

Of that magnetic, cruel power 

By which Napoleon, hour by hour, 



.The Battle's Pause 37 

Until his fiery race was run, 

Remorselessly swayed every one. 

Firm are his lips, stern are his eyes — 

Hard eyes, where naught of gladness lies; 

Yet signs there are of wasting life, 

Wasting through care and lust of strife. 

That drooping lip, that haggard cheek, 

Of pain, of ebbing force, they speak. 

But none, save veterans here and there. 

Perceive his chill, his altered air; 

The troops, o'erjoyed to see his face. 

See in his glance a sign of grace : 

His presence cures their every ill. 

And "Vive I'Empereur!" their shout is still. 



38 The Battle's Pause 

IX 

A tranquil, sunlit village green 

Sees one young Englishman : between 

A row of elms he catches sight 

Of one dear cottage ; to the right 

Lies the grey rectory, and beyond 

Old Farmer Granger's ricks and pond. 

Just where the high road quickly dips. 

Here as a child he sailed his ships. 

While loafers from the alehouse near 

Gladdened his heart by words of cheer, 

And showed him how to set his sail, 

To woo the soft, the favouring gale. 
******* 

He sees again the long sea beach 

A mile or two from home; the reach 










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The Battle's Pause 39 

The farm-folk called the Little Broad 
Gleams in the sun, while boys applaud 
His feats of strength; or on the sea 
Perchance he rows right merrily, 
While myriad skylarks, singing, soar 
Above the sand cliffs on the shore; 
Or looking seaward from the land 
He views the sunset vague and grand. 

X 

A Frenchman thinks with many a fear 

Of his one sister — very dear 

Is she to him, a girl most fair. 

He sees e'en now her dark-brown hair, 

And inly speaks, *' Herself a flower 

She hawks sweet blossoms hour by hour 



40 The Battle's Pause 

Through many a parched Parisian street, 
Gladly, though oft with toil-worn feet. 
'T is she who wins the daily bread 
And shelter for my father's head, 
Since age and sickness disallow 
Him strength to earn his living now; 
While /, who should have been their stay, 
Without appeal am forced away. 
Simply because some men — whose aims 
I do not know and scarce their names — 
Have fixedly resolved on War. 
And I — one of their human store — 
Am made to face death at their will 
Till kings and emperors have their fill." 
How strange are we ! he who so dreamed 
And all unpatriotic seemed, 



The Battle's Pause 41 

When fierce again began the strife, 
Fought with the best — cared not for life. 

The vision changes, and he sees 

The comely, the beloved trees 

That droop in summer's sultry blaze 

Along the white Parisian ways. 

In one old street he sees a spot 

Shaded by lime-trees: there is not 

A cooler nook, and side by side 

An old man and a maid abide 

In sweet affectionate converse there, 

To rest, to breathe its fresher air. 

'T is those he loves, and for a space 

He treads himself that well-known place, 

So keen his inner sight. And soon 



42 The Battle's Pause 

His sister starts through afternoon 
Long hours, and near the Tuileries 
She stays, then moves along the quays. 
She is so fair, so pure, so sweet. 
She seems to gladden all the street. 
And many look at her, and smile; 
They note her brave looks all the while. 
They know her toil of every day. 
Toil such as wears her youth away. 
And one, an honest artisan, 
A homely, upright, thrifty man, 
Poring o'er some long-cherished plan, 
Passing, thinks, " Would she were my wife, 
Happy were I though hard my life." 
And with a Frenchman's frugal care 
He saves, and saving, dreams of her. 



The Battle's Pause 43 

Although from childhood's earliest days 
She knew the drear Parisian ways 
(Gay to the rich, drear to the poor), 
From every harm she walks secure, 
From virtue none her steps allure. 
In thought, in actions, she is good, 
Kindness her constant habitude. 
She raises soft and pleading eyes 
With something of a chaste surprise 
At many a word, at many a sight, 
That comes to her by day or night. 
All innocence without, within. 
She sees, yet sees not all their sin. 



44 The Battle's Pause 



XI 

Thus runs each hapless soldier's dream 
In that short pause — that restful gleam 
Of bless6d peace. 

But, hark, there comes 
The gathering roll of distant drums 
Beating the charge, and then the sound 
Of musketry. Men gaze around 
Half in surprise — then hear again 
The clash of arms, the cry of pain. 
The wounded horse's neigh; and so 
Fateful with pain the gaunt hours go. 



TO A WORKER AMONG THE 
POOR 



To a Worker among the Poor 

Courage like yours has still a mighty power 
To purify the mind from hour to hour, 
To permeate with thrilling force the soul, 
To give new confidence, new self-control. 
To make each faulty faculty so clear 
That, though you plainly see the danger near, 
You scorn to dread it — scorn to turn aside. 
Duty your first, your chief, your only guide. 

The soldier 'mid the scenes of deadly strife 
Thinks of his country — thinks not of his life; 
And shall we then in these degenerate days 
Speak of him lightly, cease to give him praise? 



48 To a Worker among the Poor 

Yet Glory has for him her ancient charm, 
Excitement nerves for him his stalwart arm; 
When bullets whistle in the dread advance, 
For him there comes the touch of old Romance. 
War has its use : sometimes it keeps alive 
Those qualities that make a nation thrive ; 
In certain minds it checks the love of self; 
It teaches self-control, and scorn of pelf; 
Once and again it seems to make for good, 
By teaching patriotism and fortitude 
That love of country flippant scribes deride 
As but a foible — but a foolish pride — 
That love of country which a nation's fame 
Exalts, whose absence brings a nation's shame. 
Yet War, alas ! not seldom seems to be 
Only a form of licensed butchery — 



To a Worker among the Poor 49 

One of the ills that from our passions spring — 
The warrior's courage but a puny thing. 

Yes ; yours is truer courage, for it comes 

Not from the fife's shrill note, nor roll of drums, 

Not from the maddening energy of pain 

Where Horror, heedless, stalks among the slain, 

But from that hidden strength which has its 

birth 

In some sublimer sphere beyond this earth. 

That bravery is not yours which men acclaim, 

That bravery is not yours which gives men fame. 

Yours is the courage which but few suspect. 

Yours is the courage which can bear neglect, 

Yours is the courage which can suffer long. 

The courage of the man whose soul is strong, 

4 



50 To a Worker among the Poor 

Who labours on, still doing silent good, 
Nor stays his hand for Man's ingratitude. 

Though oft you seem to till a thankless soil, 
Your prayers are never vain, nor vain your toil ; 
Some fruit you yet may have to cheer your heart, 
In some new epoch you may bear a part ; 
But ev'n if now, through your short span of years 
Your work be weary, and no fruit appears, — 
Though, in humility, you look within. 
Deeming your failure the result of sin, — 
It is not so ; for still our Father knows 
What each requires — on each He still bestows 
The discipline most needed ; still He weighs 
Our work with Heavenly scales ; our purblind gaze 
Finds failure often where He knows success. 



To a Worker among the Poor 51 

All are His instruments, and so the less 
His need of one man for the world's great need; 
Righteous He is, to all He gives their meed 
Of praise or blame; yet not like us He scans — 
We see results, by them we make our plans, 
And trust or trust not men. Men's character 
He reads with searching glance that cannot err, 
And thinks not of results, but values still 
Patience and faith, and will to do His will. 
So to His best beloved oft gives He trial. 
As to His Blessed Son, of base denial. 
And haply most will honour near His throne 
Some humble follower by the world unknown. 
Blurred is perspective by our earthly view — 
To God perspective aye is clear and true. 



52 To a Worker among the Poor 

Effort like yours ever to do the right 
Will raise your soul from height to nobler height, 
And gives at last that guerdon, full, unpriced, 
The " Well done " of your life-long master, Christ. 



A PLEA FOR FAITH 



A Plea for Faith 

Life ! How mysterious does it seem, how strange 
Its grief, its happiness, its shame, its sin — 
How hard its changes are ! Can we believe 
In a great God of kindness infinite 
Who yet can daily leave His hapless world 
To be — for so it seems — the home of pain, 
Pain often useless, often showered on those 
Who seem to need it least? Can we believe 
In Perfect Goodness and Omniscient Power 
Permitting Evil to possess and spoil 
His fair dominions, and to bring a curse — 
An ageless and unceasing curse — upon them ? 



56 A Plea for Faith 

Alas, to our poor minds our futile years 
Seem but a clueless maze. When happiness 
Is ours, a hidden canker-worm reveals 
Its hateful presence, and too soon there comes 
Something to vex the spirit, or to jar. 
Something to cloud or check our perfect joy. 

One man has buoyant health, and feels delight 
In living merely, yet he finds how hard 
Is poverty to bear ; it oftentimes 
Hangs round him as a changeless destiny. 
Too rich is he to rank among the poor, 
Too poor is he to rank among the rich; 
Of neither class, he knows the ills of both. 

Another man has ample wealth, and friends 
Who love to do him honour, and to give 



A Plea for Faith 57 

To him the zest in living which such friends 
Alone can give. Yet look ! — alas, 't is clear 
Disease's curse is on him, fell disease 
For which weak human skill affords no cure 
And scarce alleviation. He is doomed 
To pass a joyless life despite the joys 
Surrounding him. 

Another man we see 
With riches and with pulse of flawless health. 
With steadfast, cheerful face he fronts the 

world, 
And all seems well ; yet could we look within. 
Some grief we should perceive which saps his life 
And makes it full of care — a grief that springs 
Not from his fault; or oftentimes we see 
Innocent children suffer for the sake 



58 A Plea for Faith 

Of guilty parents, or a mother's heart 

Guileless and pure, that bleeds for some loved son 

Or daughter who, alas, has gone astray. 

Not seldom in despondency we feel 

As though the wrong is victor o'er the right, 

As though our life were but a flake of foam 

Cast by some cruel sea on some bleak shore, 

A moment seen, and then for ever lost. 

And yet, if we deny that God exists 
As perfect in His goodness as His power, 
If we deny that Death, God's angel, brings 
To man a nobler life, what do we gain 
To compensate us for the hopes we lose? 
For still we must endure the woes of life, 
Still must we feel the longings which arise 



A Plea for Faith 59 

For rest and peace amid our daily toil. 
These we must still endure, and yet perceive 
Beyond the grave no gleam of gathering light, 
Nought save the gloom of nothingness before us. 



But if we greet kind Faith, and let her hand 
Lead us through all our years, though at the last 
We find that hope of happier life is vain 
(That 'twere so would not change the argument) 
Faith's guidance will have given a mighty boon 
To us, in gladdening all our days on earth. 
So even if we wholly set aside 
Faith's fervent pleading with the intellect — 
A pleading ever present, ever strong, 
'T is wiser far to guide our minds to view 
The problem still in some such wise as this, 



6o A Plea for Faith 

'T is true amid our earthly life there runs 

A tangled thread of strange perplexity 

And much injustice; yet comes by and by 

A nobler state of being, when that which seems 

Unjust will be explained or set aright. 

'Tis best to hold that there exists a God 

Who made Man's mind with marvellous powers, 

though He 
In His deep wisdom limited the scope 
Of what He made, wherefore our reason's sphere 
Of thought is swiftly reached, and so it seems 
To us so frequently that human life 
Hath such injustice in its fleeting years; 
That He decrees that it is well for us 
In humble trust to tread "the path of sorrow," 
Perchance as discipline for some high scheme 



A Plea for Faith 6i 

Of joy hereafter, or perchance to show 
To others how the brave can conquer pain ; 
That Life's dark mysteries do but transcend. 
Not contradict our reason, and when soon 
Our earthly life shall close, there dawns a life 
When He endows us with new gifts of mind. 
Then chief among the pleasures it can give 
Will be the thrill of joy when first we feel 
That now we understand those mysteries 
Which vexed our souls before — when first we find 
That many "themes with which we cannot cope " 
Grow clear, and "Earth's worst phrenzies " are at 

length 
Forgotten in the joy of Hope's fruition. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



To 

A Summer Evening in the Woods 



How lovely are the woodland glades to-night, 
The boughs slow moving in the balmy air, 
As birds sing now and then from pure delight 
With melody low-pitched, though scarce aware 
They sing. The branches erewhile gaunt and 

bare, 
Have donned their daintiest dress; the insects 

keep 

A dreamy revel, murmuring everywhere ; 

s 



66 To 

In these dear glades, so still, so dim, so deep, 
Save for these lulling sounds kind Nature seems 
to sleep. 

II 

The voiceless stars shine out, and all too soon 
The calm delicious summer twilight ends; 
Yet but a little space, and lo ! the moon 
Has ris'n, and thence a flood of light descends, 
While she amid the clouds, majestic, wends 
Her queen-like way; obsequious stand they 

near, 
Like courtiers round a throne; each object 

lends 
Fresh beauty to the landscape made so clear 
In this rare light that all its richer hues are here. 




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To 67 

III 

Now in this evening walk there lives anew 

That joyous summer evening long ago, 

Sweet as to-night, when first I walked with 

you — 
When, as the westering sun was sinking low, 
I first knew all your love for me; and so 
Each year since then more swiftly than the last 
Has gone, for Time but made our love to grow. 
Yes, while the years are hurrying to the past, 
My one regret it is that still they fly so fast. 



The Boy Chatterton to Himself 

" Sublime of thought and confident of fame." 

Coleridge, Monody on the Death of Chatterton. 

That dotard soul I cannot comprehend, 
Who knows no hope that, after many years 
His name should be preserved by other means 
Than by an entry in the parish books — 
The soul who never knew the proud desire 
To be remembered in far days unborn 
By some great deed accomplished. 

Therefore here 
I make a vow — a vow unchanging, strong : 
I will redeem the time, and, though the days 



The Boy Chatterton to Himself 69 

Are evil, yet it will be my delight 

To toil unceasingly, that at the last 

It shall be seen I have not lived in vain. 

Men's hours are passed as sacred Scripture 

saith — 
"They eat, they drink, are merry, and they die." 
Few daily doings are of much account 
In fifty years; then let my mind be set 
On some fit theme meet for my noblest powers. 



The Boy Coleridge to Himself 

** O capacious soul! " 

Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book xi<v. 

" I WONDER wherefore ? " is the soul-stirred cry 
Which wells up from the depths of human hearts 
In every sphere of life — from lowly homes 
And princely palaces — from hermit cells 
And seething crowds — from youth and riper age 
And longest length of years — from rich and 

poor — 
From all who have the manliness to think — 
In health or sickness — happiness or woe — 
'Mid Life's supremest moments or its trifles 



The Boy Coleridge to Himself 71 

Which often make men ponder most. And this 
Incessant questioning is surely meant 
As greatest food for hope — a token given 
That, notwithstanding its abyss of sin, 
Within man's soul the germs of good abide. 
Mysterious are the links that firmly weld 
Our trains of thought together. First we brood 
On some small trivial matter — now the germ 
Of musings somewhat loftier — then behold, 
A thread is woven with our thought, and lo 
It leads to higher themes ! — vast vistas new 
For serious contemplation: — and we gain 
Sublimest heights, as God-reflected thoughts 
Transcending reason throng our kindled minds. 



The Philosophy of our Feelings 

'T IS strange that what seems grief to-day 
Should seem like joy to-morrow, 

That present bliss should pass away 
And seem, in future, sorrow. 

Yet in the web of life we find, 

While its vague threads we measure. 

The pattern of our mood of mind 
Traced out in pain or pleasure. 



The Philosophy of Frequent 
Failure 

In Youth's glad morning hours of strenuous life 
Great contemplations often fill the mind 
With noblest aspirations, while it seems 
To us, as yet scarce touched by sordid care 
And blighting prejudice, quite possible 
Through our unaided strength to win at last 
Some shining goal which glitters in our sight — 
A o-oal which, when 'twas won, would crown with 

good 
The Universal Brotherhood of Man. 
But as the years roll on we find the dream 



74 The Philosophy of Frequent Failure 

Less easy of fulfilment, — for we feel 
Our ardour less intense — our weary feet 
Glide gently into that poor old-world groove 
We so despised of yore, — and we are fain 
To use fast-failing energy in strife 
'Gainst daily troubles; higher aims forgotten. 



Wind Fancies 

Murmuring winds vague fancies carry- 
To the heart while sweeping by, 

And the fancies often tarry 

Though the winds that brought them die. 

Now the fancies are of gladness, 

Life itself seems one delight; 
Now the fancies are of sadness. 

Life itself seems dark as night. 



To Frederick Tennyson 

{Died February 26, 1898, in his ninety-first year) 

Eldest of your august, poetic race, 
You go the last to your calm resting-place; 
Yet though you pass from out our earthly view, 
Your work remains, and Time shall give your due. 

Whether beneath the tranquil Tuscan skies 
You mused as all too soon the daylight dies. 
Whether you watched from your far island home 
The English Channel's eddying miles of foam, 
Or whether in your mild declining days 
You sojourned 'mid our London's clamorous ways, 



To Frederick Tennyson 77 

Yours was the poet's life through length of years, 
Yours were the poet's joys, and hopes, and fears; 
Yours were the tender ministries of song, 
Yours were the pleasures which to bards belong 
Who, dwelling in the world, yet "dwell apart," 
And think but of their God and of their art. 

Our gain from lives like yours no verse can tell : 
Eldest of English poets, fare you well. 

London, February 26, 1898. 



To a Lady playing the Harp 
in her Chamber 

{T^he Countess Rosalie von Sauerma-Xulzendorf^ 
niece of Spohr) 



Lady, whose conscious fingers sweep the strings 
With all the true musician's living power, 

I watch your hand, your gentle hand, which clings 
To that loved harp which has your touch for 
dower. 

How perfect is your skill, the fruit of years — 
Years full of labour, years of patient thought ! 



To a Lady playing the Harp 79 

Such tones as yours can move the heart to tears : 
With keen delight such tones as yours are 
fraught. 

Now while the soft notes in their sweetness rise, 
Now while the wave of music dies away, 

I seem to see the soul which lights your eyes — 
The soul which lends the magic while you play. 

To Music's self how deep is your devotion; 

Your strains are not mere Art — they are Emotion. 



II 

You told me once of that dear mother's love 
Whose goodness was the sunshine of your youth, 

Whose smile "made paradise " for you, who strove 
To point the way to happy paths of Truth. 



8o To a Lady Playing the Harp 

You told me how through Life's dark days of 
grief — 
Through all Life's dreary days of changeful 
care — 
The thought of her fond love could bring relief, 
The thought of her fond love could quell 
despair. 
And now I know that in your music's sweetness, 

In its most subtle power to move the heart, 
In its true grandeur, in its rare completeness. 

Your mother's hallowed influence has a part — 
An influence present yet and ceasing never, 
An influence gathering strength and beauty ever. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS 



To Christina Rossetti 

Great as a Poet^ greater as a Woman 
{Died December 29, 1894) 

I MARVEL not that God hath called away 

Thy peerless soul to where His saints abide; 

Rather I praise Him that He bade thee stay 
On earth so long — to be a heavenward guide. 



A Sunrise in Early Summer 



Now lagging black-browed Night at last is 

gone, 
And fair and happy Dawn at length is here. 

How sweet the sights vv^hich now I look upon — 
The sights of summer beauty growing clear ! 
The meadows yonder and the lawn appear 
Glittering with dewdrops — dewdrops silvery, 

white, 
Touched by the sun's first beams; while far and 

near 



A Sunrise in Early Summer 85 

Each bird, each flower awakes, and hails the 
sight 
Of coming morn: to them like me it brings 



delight. 



II 

To eastward lies a mass of sable cloud 
Made glorious by the rising sun, who flings 
His rays athwart its depths. I hear the loud 
Yet mellow thrush's note — a blackbird sings 
With sudden burst of song — a lark up-springs 
From that wide field of wheat; so more and 

more 
Sounds Nature's orchestra of myriad strings. 
I watch the apple-bloom, while May-buds pour 
On all the gentle air their matchless, fragrant 
store. 



86 A Sunrise in Early Summer 

III 

O, who at sunrise could be aught but glad — 

Sunrise, the prototype of perfect day, 

When we shall wake to bliss, nor weak nor sad. 

And, feeling swiftly the seraphic ray 

From God's effulgence, cast the fears away 

Which still cleave to us, and with rapturous 

soul 
Know that black Trouble can no longer stay 
In His blest presence — know the precious goal 
Where all Earth's grievous wounds are made for 

ever whole. 



Her Boy Just Dead 

{J Mother Speaks) 

My darling dead ! Is all the long endeavour 
To vanquish Death in vain? These wistful 
eyes, 

So Truth- illumed and loving, will they never 
Check by a look again my futile sighs ? 

And shall I weep — akhough for him the gladness 
Of this world's many pleasures now is o'er, 

And I am left with this my load of sadness. 
Which here on earth is mine for evermore? 



88 Her Boy Just Dead 

A cripple's lot were his, had he, remaining, 
Here ta'en his part where grief and care are 
rife — 

Little of sinless happiness obtaining. 
Feeling all miseries of earthly life. 



To shorten that hard period of probation 
Given to such as he so often here — 

To raise him soon to an immortal station 

Where comes no thoughtless word, no taunt, 
no jeer — 



The Master, in His mercy, gently made him 
Fitter among His ransomed ones to be — 

And day by day more perfectly arrayed him 
In His own peerless robe of purity. 



Her Boy Just Dead 89 

Then shall I cherish an abiding sorrow 

For him whom God in goodness calls away? 

Nay, rather let me muse on that blest morrow 
Which joins in bliss our severed souls for aye. 



Miracles 

Christ's wondrous miracles were signs indeed 

Of wondrous power; yet every miracle 

Of His had moral purpose, and was wrought 

To show this moral purpose : and perchance 

Thus is it that no longer we possess 

The power to do such deeds. Had you or I 

Such gifts, we still should heal unceasingly, 

Nor judge of the effects were cures but made. 

Where then would be God's discipline of pain? 

Where His just government of all His world? 

Where then would be His discipline of sorrow? 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 

A BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL STUDY 

With Six Portraits and Six Facsimiles. ^2.50. 
Third Edition 

QUEEN VICTORIA, in accepting a copy of this work, lias expressed, 
through her secretary, Col. Sir Arthur Bigge, her thanks for the " inter- 
esting memoir." 

" It is natural there should be a demand for a life of so true a poet as 
the late Christina Rossetti ; she was such a beautiful character and made 
so deep an impression upon her friends, that any authentic record of her 
must be worth reading." — Times, London. 

" Practically everything that anyone is entitled to know about the poet- 
ess is told us." — Standard, London. 

" The author has had the advantage of personal knowledge and the 
encouragement of the surviving member of that gifted family. He has 
done all that a man could do for the theme." — Daily Chronicle, London. 

" The volume fulfils its purpose excellently; the author is in full sym- 
pathy with his subject and, we should judge, has presented the poet to 
the world as she would have wished herself to be seen. . . . The portraits 
are delicately charming." — AthencBiim, London. 

" While claiming merely to have discharged the ' easier functions of an 
exponent,' Mr. Mackenzie Bell proves that he possesses the critical 
faculty in a very rare degree." — Publishers' Circular, London {leader), 

CHARLES WHITEHEAD 

A FORGOTTEN GENIUS 

A Monograph 

New Edition. Cloth, 85 cents. 

" It is strange how men with a true touch of genius in them can sink 
out of recognition. Mr. Mackenzie Bell's sketch may be welcomed for 
reviving the interest in Whitehead." — Times, London. 

" Mr. Mackenzie Bell writes in an excellent style, and his critical remarks 
are full of thoughtful good sense." — Conteinporary Review, Londoti. 

" This fascinating book. . . . Mr. Mackenzie Bell has done a peculiar 
service to letters." — Daily News, London. 

" No fault can be found with the manner in which Mr. Mackenzie Bell 
has accomplished his difficult task. He had been inspired by an enthusi- 
asm honourable to the biographer's sense of justice and deep, far-reaching 
sympathy." — Morning Post, London. 

" His monograph is carefully, neatly, and sympathetically built up." — 
Globe, London. 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

SPRING'S IMMORTALITY AND OTHER POEMS 

Third Edition. Cloth, gilt. Z^ cents. 

" Among the seven groups of poems into which this modest book is 
divided, those called ' Pictures of Travel ' are likely to meet with the most 
general favour. . . . What Mr. Bell has seen he can describe with con- 
siderable vividness. . . . There are one or two poems founded on history. 
Among them is a version of a striking story which has been used by 
Aytoun and other ballad-writers. It is really very vigorously written. 
. . . The religious poems are certain to have a pretty general accept- 
ance, as they are evidently inspired by genuine feeling." — Aihenceum, 
London. 

*' There are poems in this volume which will bring light and cheer to 
many a drooping spirit. There are others that will be read with pleasure 
tor the vigour with which they are written. And there are others — more 
particularly, perhaps, the sonnets — on which readers will dwell with the 
delight which thoughtful verse, the genuine outcome of true feeling, never 
fails to give. . . . Mr. Bell thinks his own thoughts, and expresses 
them in his own style and language." — Acade^ny, Londo7i. 

" Mr. Bell's poems must give pleasure to ears that are tuned to simple 
and unaffected song, and it is clear from the poet's suggestive and vivid 
* Pictures of Travel ' that he needs not an exceptional incitement to sing. 
The poetic impulse, in fact, is a natural impulse with Mr. Bell." — Satur- 
day Review, London. 

"Throughout a model of finished workmanship, and of that perfect san- 
ity of the imagination which is the note of all our best work in this de- 
partment of literature." — Daily News, Londoji. 

" One is struck by the evidence given of a sympathetic personality ex- 
pressing itself in clear and well-turned strains. Everywhere the workman- 
ship is good, the spirit serene, the standpoint generous." — Globe, Lottdofz. 

" Verse like Mr. Mackenzie Bell's is sufficiently rare, and should be 
valued. . . . His verse leaves on us the impression that we have been 
in company with a poet." — Bookman, London. 



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